To the Fore We Stray
by tomato machine
Summary: "Kuroko lived in that world, with all the wretched others who peeled back the velvet curtain to see and seek what lay beyond, lurking in the ether." In a city beset by assassinations, rat plagues and scheming aristocrats, Kuroko Shirai makes a choice that will alter the course of her life. [dishonoured au]


i.

They wreath Kuroko in finery, a silk dress as smooth as liquid Mercury and dyed a deep, rich blue to rival the sapphire coasts of the Isles. The inner lining of it chafes like the mesh of a net against her skin. What a fine cage, Kuroko thinks while the maids bustle about her, busy in preparation for the grand banquet her family is to host this evening.

When the maids are done, Kuroko burns red looking at herself in the mirror. She thanks and dismisses them, then begins her scrutiny of herself when she is alone. Kuroko clicks her tongue in disdain, yet cannot help but be oddly appreciative of the aesthetic thought put in. They have her auburn hair done up in elegant curls. Stray strands fall artfully so, framing the delicate features of her girlish face.

She never feels quite like herself in moments like this, she feels more like a doll than a human being. Admittedly, at least half of that feeling stems from the whale bone corset hugging her rib cage and pressing into her like a mould.

Lightly, so as not to smudge her make-up, she traces the plains of her face with her hands, beginning at her cheek, and ending at the bridge of her chin. What a fine young woman my daughter has blossomed into. You look more and more like your mother every day. Unbidden, the memory jolts of her father saying this wistfully as he strokes his well-kept beard in consideration. His eyes take on a a faraway look as his thoughts wander, haunted but beguiled by the memory of his late wife.

Kuroko knows she has her mother's eyes, but that her hair is of a darker shade. She never knew her mother, never got the chance to feel the warmth of being encircled in her arms, or see the smile crinkle at the corners of her eyes. Kuroko never had the chance to hear stories about growing up in the Far Continent, crossing deserts and trekking through jungles while fending off majestic and terrifying creatures.

Kuroko grew up in her father's mansion, in the cobblestone and brick-walled labyrinth, in the city of Dunwall, the beating industrial heart of the Empire, an alien to half her heritage. She traces her features now in a vain attempt to retrace her roots, and wonders what her mother would say to her now if she were by her side. Kuroko stops when the tears begin to bead at the corner of her eyes. As far as she is concerned, she has no cause to shed tears for a woman she has never known.

She dabs at the tears with her handkerchief, careful so as to not smudge her makeup, then turns her gaze to her dressing room table. On a far end of it is a scale model of a fine seafaring vessel in a dusty, old bottle. A souvenir from her father's old vocation passed down to her like an heirloom of sorts at her last birthday.

Kuroko heaves a sigh. Other daughters receive fine silk shawls and exotic jewellery. She had no doubt that their family was absolutely singular, of the peculiar sort, but she was allowed to be her own person for the most part, and she was grateful to her father for giving her that leeway. She wonders what he thinks when he looks solemnly at her sometimes, gaunt-cheeked and world weary with shadows under his eyes. She wonders if he ever resented his heir, for being his daughter rather than his son.

There will be time yet for dark thoughts to wander...

Kuroko turns to more immediate matters then. Upon the desk is a mask. It is one of many she has donned for such an occasion. Tonight, her mask is that of a rabbit. Uiharu has outdone herself this time, Kuroko thinks as she fingers the white, velveteen ears on the mask, and its tickling whiskers. Kuroko wonders where her friend is right now... Probably scurrying about in the kitchens, helping however she can.

Masquerade balls have been all the rage of late. Kuroko ponders why as she ghosts towards her bedroom window and looks out, at the sun setting upon their dying great beast of a city. Perhaps the aristocrats are too ashamed to look at each other and be confronted with what they have done, what they have become.

The danger is apparent to her even from her window when she presses close to the cool glass and peers out. Two streets down, the old boarding house on Kipling Avenue has been quarantined to keep the rat plague at bay. She cringes at the thought of the soldiers stationed outside, ready to shoot whoever tries to escape. Are any of the boarders still even alive?

They have yet to find a cure. The plague victims are treated like a taint to be excised. The lower quarters of the city most devastated have been cordoned off. In the Flooded District, the diseased are left to die, and the dead to be heaped upon each other and burnt together with the refuse, lest the crows feast and spread the plague anew. It is all Kuroko can do to hope that those infected receive a swift and painless end. The alternative would be far too cruel. Kuroko's thoughts are drawn to her youth, of finding a young girl no older than her rummaging in her family's garbage, gnawing on a leftover chicken bone, as she crouched in the cold, all skin and bones. Such dark and cruel times they lived in...

At the knock upon her door, Kuroko slips on her mask and makes to play the part of a host for the evening, leaving behind no trace of warmth but for a rapidly cooling handprint upon the window.

-  
ii.

The masked ball is well underway. It is a surreal procession of animals that fill the vast expanse of her father's mansion tonight. A zoo of sorts, with creatures of every habitat, from the dusty savannah, to the murky depths of the ocean deep walking upright on two feet, playing at being human.

Kuroko hugs the walls as she watches them like an outsider, a part of, yet apart from the festivities at hand. She wears her mask and plays the part well, but she knows she will never truly be one of them. She can see it in their sneering eyes as they deliver their artfully decorated, yet biting words. There are those among the aristocracy who will only ever see her as a half-wild miscreant, a living, shameful remnant of a Lord's youthful indiscretion. But alas, she digresses from matters at hand.

The aristocrats wear their hearts not on their sleeves, but over their heads. With their masks, they bear their proclivities for all the world to see. Kuroko bears witness to this from the sidelines. At the banquet table, a rotund, pig-headed man is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of candlelight from the centerpiece as he piles delicatessen high onto his plate - jellied calf hooves and pickled herring, with thick cuts of venison from her father's last hunt.

Tonight, wine flows like water as the aristocracy dance about to music from the orchestra, caught up in each other and deaf to the world outside the White mansion. The other aristocrats milling about are lightheaded and light hearted as they drape themselves across the upholstery or lean subtly towards each other. They are caught up in their own game of predator and prey as they preen and scheme, embroiled in social niceties or plotting to topple one of their own from power and grace. From afar, Kuroko cannot tell one action from the other.

Kuroko knows for a fact that some among them gathered here have killed more people with their tongues than decorated soldiers do with their swords in their lifetimes.

What joy there is to be had! What a marvellous idea, Kuroko thinks as she presses the glass of wine to her lips, and tips it all the way back. Let us bask in revelry as the world around us burns. The lace of her dress clinging to her neck chafes like a collar, and she picks at it futilely with her fingers, eager to rid herself of the itch.

The mood changes when their grand mahogany doors swing wide well into the party, and a masked guest steps through unescorted, head held high and gait as graceful as a swan. A woman in an decadently extravagant serpentine mask lets out a loud gasp at the sight, and drops her glass of wine. The mood changes, not because this guest is past fashionably late, but because of how he is dressed.

He...he does not even look human to Kuroko. It is dressed in somber black from head to toe, in a fine, tailored vest and coat, with dark leather boots. Over its face is a mask, but the face that greets the world is not the caricature of an animal, nor is it even that of a man.

What Kuroko and the other guests see is a metal mask of something that looks more creature than man, a metal, skull-shaped monstrosity unhinged at the jaw, and haphazardly stitched together. Out from one eye socket three beady obsidian "eyes" of varying diameters look out. At the crown of its head is inlaid a strange metal knob... As if someone had bashed a hole into its skull at one point, which warranted a patchy fix-up.

Everyone within its line of sight takes in a pregnant pause of air, and watches, horrified, yet morbidly curious as it steps further and further into the mansion, closer and closer towards them. It is not a sight they are unacquainted with. The stupefied expression on their faces mirrors that a mother would make after telling her child a frightening bedtime story only to answer the door later and be greeted by the monster in the fable, in the flesh, who asks to be let in for a spot of tea.

Already, the guards in attendance are jittery, hands slowly edging towards their pistols. The guards near it have their hands already on their swords, waiting for any excuse to intervene.

It seems to pay them no mind. After hanging up its long black coat, it walks, pace unchanged, and back straight, until it stops at a small table in the foyer. Time seems to slow to a crawl as it reaches into the lapel of its finely tailored vest with its gold, embroidered buttons. Kuroko has heard the stories. Everyone has heard the stories. What will it be? How will they meet their end? A plague of rats? A crossbow to the heart? Peripherally, she hears someone openly weep.

Kuroko blinks. When she opens her eyes, she sees it jot something down in the guest book with its fountain pen. With fifty eyes still upon it, it rounds the corner, steps languidly elegant as ever, as it walks towards the serpent-masked woman.

The woman takes a nervous step back as it draws near. She hides the lower half of her face behind her folded fan as her eyes dart about rapidly, hoping in vain that it is stalking towards another target. When it nears her, it makes a grand show of bending low, taking her hand and planting a phantom kiss upon it with its mask still in place.

After a beat, after the murmur of words have been exchanged between them, they sidestep the mess on the floor from her broken glass and spilled wine as they make their way towards the ballroom hand in hand. Everyone left behind lets out a collective sigh of relief, grateful for things resuming some semblance of normalcy. Chatter breaks out among those at what they have witnessed.

"What an outrageous stunt to pull at such a time! It leaves a bad taste in the mouth." A portly man in a rooster mask mutters loudly to Kuroko's left.

"Here, some Tyvian brandy will help wash that away." Answers a lady clad in a pigeon mask and an emerald dress as she hands him a glass of brandy.

"How can you be so blasé! Did you hear about what that masked felon did to the High Overseer?" He bellows, affronted. He peels back the mask just enough to take a greedy gulp of brandy.

"Yes. Well, with the rate you've been going on about it, they've heard you from all the way up at Dunwall Tower by now." She says softly as she tilts her head away from him.

"You know full well that little stunt could have caused a panic!" He shouts and slams his half empty glass onto a wooden countertop. The force of it sends the brandy splashing across his mask, to which he pays little mind. His whole body is heaving. Kuroko is certain that under his mask, his face is red with anger. "Do not belittle me, C-"

"Now, now, dear. No names, you know the rules at these things, Mr. Rooster." She interjects by waggling a finger in his face. "I'm sorry about ruffling your feathers. What we witnessed was a distasteful, but harmless stunt. We have all the time in the world to worry about the next atrocity. We are at a ball tonight. Come on now, lighten up."

He harrumphs and grumbles, but allows the pigeon-masked woman to lead him into the dining hall by the crook of his elbows as he mutters about "reporting this debacle to Lord Shirai."

Kuroko blinks out of her stupor as their words trail off and become unintelligible. She looks back at where the masked man stood only moments before. A servant scurries over and makes quick work of the mess left on the floor, mopping up the spilled wine and picking up the shattered remains of glass.

Alas, it it is too late. Already, a blot of a stain has formed upon the impeccable marble floor of the White Manor. Her fellow witnesses pay it no mind. As if nothing has happened, they hurry away to other parts of the mansion, no doubt already eager to gossip, or to forget with the help of some drink.

Kuroko cannot let it go. It is a strange, magnetic pull, whispering in her ear and tugging at her heart that has her stalking determinedly towards the round cherrywood table, and looking into the guest logbook. Her eyes widen at the last name written upon it. Her hands shake when she snaps the book shut. She stands rooted there for a time, overwhelmed by a strange and noxious mix of fury and indignation.

-  
iii.

It glides across the marble ballroom as regal as a monarch and light-footed as a ghost. Apart from its chilling costume, it does not seem out of place in the slightest as it leads the snake-masked woman from before in a graceful waltz to music from the live orchestra. Any trepidations about its insidious intentions are easily dismissed at the couple's obvious and easy chemistry.

The whispered and muttered apprehension about its despicable costume from onlookers start to give way steadily, like the ebb of a tide, the more they scrutinise the dancing couple. As if the beauty of their synchrony would wash away the atrocity of his beastly getup. She tucks her head into the crook of its neck with a practised ease, and chortles slip out of her mouth when it tilts its head to whisper something into her ear. It would be so easy to mistake them for lovers instead of strangers who had met in a moment of serendipity, not even an hour before.

Kuroko watches it all unfold from a discreet corner as she nurses her glass. With eyes narrowed in suspicion, she sips greedily at her cup of brandy. It would be so easy to believe and let it go, but Kuroko has always been a bit of a skeptic.

If her suspicions were correct, what then? Kuroko thinks. Her head runs wild with the implications and the branching path of possibilities. There are so many different ways things can go wrong. So many people that could die, caught in the crossfire.

She knows the procedure. If she alerts the head guard, he would have the mansion locked down, and there is no doubt in Kuroko's mind that the masked vigilante would have no gripes taking hostages or taking lives to elude capture. For all Kuroko knew, it would rather go down in a blaze of carnage and death than surrender.

Liquid courage, she thinks to herself as she swallows the last dregs of her brandy, and replaces it with a glass of champagne from a passing servant. Be still, dear heart, she wills in vain and wonders how much more courage she will need to get through the rest of night.

Where has her father been all this time? Kuroko sighs, in need of a familiar face and some counsel. Spying Uiharu with a tray of h'ordeuvres, Kuroko thanks her good fortune as she makes her way over.

"Greetings, miss! You look lovely this evening." Uiharu beams at Kuroko upon her approach, Kuroko's mask doing well to hide her bleak mood. "Would you care for some devilled shrimp? They're really quite good!"

"Later perhaps." Kuroko clicks her tongue, trying for an even voice as her head motions towards the dancing couple. "Did you hear about what happened?"

"Oh! The lovers, you mean? I overheard guests talking about it. What a grand, romantic gesture!" Uiharu sighs, her eyes sparkling as her voice takes on a faraway, dreamy quality." They say that she must have dared him to wear that horrible costume to prove his love for her. And he followed through! Isn't love wonderful? It's just like in the stories. What do you think will happen next? Maybe they'll elope after the party!"

Uiharu squeals in delight at the thought. Kuroko has no doubt that Uiharu would be clasping her hands with joy in front of her face if she was not currently still holding onto the metal tray of h'ordeuvres. Meanwhile, Kuroko resists the urge to bludgeon her own head against the nearest wall. Those fools would romanticise a haemorrhoid if given the chance!

Kuroko takes Uiharu's shoulders in both her hands and gives her a firm squeeze in an attempt to bring her back down to earth. "Listen to me, Uiharu. I need your help. Something's not right, and we need to get to the bottom of this before something terrible happens."

Uiharu blinks her way back down to reality and eyes Kuroko with a concerned frown. Half her face scrunches up as if she has smelled something foil. "Ms Shirai, how much champagne have you had to drink?"

"...Not much? I had wine... Maybe some brandy too."

"That's even worse! You shouldn't mix drinks." Uiharu interrupts, laying a hand upon the exposed skin of Kuroko's neck. "You're heating up. You know you can't handle your alcohol."

"That doesn't matter right now! I need you to listen to me, Uiharu. There is something dangerous about that skeleton-masked man. I want you to try your best to stay away from him." Kuroko pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers, already feeling the onset of a headache as she sways backward, momentarily disoriented. Or at least she tries to pinch it, forgetting momentarily about the mask covering most of her face.

"Are you feeling unwell? Are you dizzy?" Uiharu's worried tone increases in intensity. She lays her tray down and slowly escorts Kuroko to another room, and bids her sit down at a sofa. "Wait here, miss! I'll fetch a glass of water!"

During the walk over, the world around her spins like a wheel upon an axle. What's happening to her? Kuroko moans in pain and decides to close her eyes for a blink. The moments following pass by in a haze.

-  
iv.

When Kuroko comes to, she is tucked in, snug under her bed's fluffy and voluminous blankets. Kuroko makes the mistake of trying to get up immediately and finds hands grip gently but firmly at her shoulders when she groans in pain. Her mouth tastes like a plague rat had died while trying to crawl down her throat, and the last dregs of a headache reverberates inside her skull.

"Careful now. Here, have a sip of water first." Kuroko blinks up in confusion to see the worried face of her father as he passes her a glass of water together with two pills. "There, there now. Slow sips. Don't choke. How are you feeling, child?"

"Father! Where have you been all night?" Kuroko says in exasperation after she pops the pills and hands him back an empty glass. "I have had a terrible feeling all night... Is anyone hurt? Did anything happen?"

"Hmm, let us see. I have been informed of a duel in the gardens. But casualties are to be expected from such things. Worry not, dear girl." His says reassuringly as he clumsily combs back the fringes at her forehead with large, calloused fingers. "No casualties so far, unless you count Lady Shokuhou's hat. I'm told you pried it off her without a moment's notice and retched quite a bit."

Kuroko does not remember having done that at all, but blushes in embarrassment all the same. She shields her face from her father's bemused expression using her pillow and groans at the repercussions that are to come. She had not an ounce of love for that scheming enigma of a woman, but still, no one deserved that. Not even her.

"I think it best to stay away from her for a bit." His hand retreats, and his expression grows thoughtful as he strokes his salt and pepper beard. "As for my absence... It is difficult to admit, but I have been hiding in my study, busy with last minute rehearsals. Your wreck of a father is nervous about the speech he has to make."

"I'm sure you'll do fine, father." Kuroko thinks back to the sleepless nights they spent, pouring over medical journals and the innumerable rats they had to dissect to better understand the Academy of Natural Philosophy was bound to recognise his efforts eventually.

He barks out a self-derisive laugh, then ducks down to help tuck Kuroko back into bed. "I hope so. I would like to believe I'm not yet that senile. Thank you for everything you've done to help, child. I'm sure your mother would be proud. I know I am."

"Think nothing of it." They exchange warm smiles and he steps away towards a corner table to refill her glass with some water from a crystal pitcher.

"Did you..." Kuroko chews her bottom lip, and chooses her next words very carefully, "Encounter a guest dressed all in black? The man in the mask?"

"...Yes. I had a chat with him. Peculiar chap with a strange sense of humour... Friendly though! And a marvellous dancer. His costume... What can I say other than that there was a remarkable attention paid to detail. I asked for the name of his tailor, and he just laughed. Or at least I think he did." He says as he lays the glass, now refilled, firmly back on the bedside table.

"Alright then, I just came to check up on you. I really should be on my way." He bends down to press a quick kiss to Kuroko's temple. She scrunches her face when his beard tickles and prickles at her skin. "I'll turn off the lights. Rest up, I think you've had enough excitement for one night. Uiharu wanted to watch over you, but I sent her off to the kitchens for a bite. Poor girl hasn't eaten all day."

"All the best, father."

At the foot of the door, he turns around and smiles at her, warm but weary, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looks at once five years younger. For once, the gauntness of his face and the shadows under his eyes do not have her heart turned to sorrow. "We will discuss your drinking habits in the morning. Shout if you require assistance. I have guards stationed outside your door. Goodnight."

Kuroko answers with a groan, sinking back down into the bed. She stares up at the ceiling. If she strains her ears, she can measure the distance he travels by counting the sound of his footsteps upon the creaking floorboards as it tapers off into the distance. When she is satisfied, Kuroko throws off her covers and makes to stand, careful to keep the lights dim. As far as she is concerned, the night is still young, and she is not yet done with her investigation.

One room in the White Manor has a secret passage built into it, to be used to evacuate in the event of an emergency - Kuroko's bedroom. It is a narrow staircase and perilously steep, built simply for the sake of functionality. Hidden behind the false back of her grand armoire, the staircase leads directly to the wine cellar. The thing about these old houses was that they all had a backdoor that led out into the sewer tunnels from the basements.

Her forebears, namely, the original architects of her ancestral home thought it would come in handy. Right now, Kuroko cannot help but praise their foresight.

Kuroko shimmies out of her camisole and begins preparations to don another outfit to blend into the party anew. She is almost done - choosing to forego the corset for a chance to breathe. When she is about to don her new mask, she hears it, a thud, like a slab of meat falling upon the floor. From her side of the door, she hears a muffled yelp of surprise, before the sound of another thud almost instantaneously follows.

The sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach cuts through her like a shiver. No sooner has she heard the second body hit the floor is Kuroko's heart hammering in her chest. For an eternity, Kuroko holds her breath while she stands, wide-eyed and quietly shaking with terror as she strains her ears to pick up the creaking sound of footsteps fade away into the distance. Kuroko crumples to the floor and heaves in relief, the mask in her hand crushed beyond repair.

She takes greedy gulps of air and hoists herself up onto her feet using the edge of her bed after a moment spent recomposing herself. Kuroko tiptoes across the room and peers through the keyhole and out onto the corridor, catching a narrow glimpse of black as the figure rounds a corner and vanishes from her sight.

Kuroko tears her gaze away and looks towards the armoire instead. As she saw it, before the night ended, she had to cross through one of two doors and not look back.

She could make her escape. A wise woman would bolt the door to her bedroom, climb through the armoire and down the staircase. A wise woman would do well to forget what little peculiarities she saw and what sexual indiscretions she harboured. A wise woman would choose to live out the rest of her days as ordinarily as she could - marry a nice young man and settle drown into the hubbub of matrimonial tedium.

She could slip away quietly, or she could trace the river of blood to its source, and quite possibly die along the way. In the past year, the city has been wracked with a slew of assassinations and disappearances. Key political figures have fallen from grace, shaking the already rotting foundations of the Empire, but to what end? There exists an entire side of the city Kuroko has never been privy to, and all questions and answers start and end with one lone, masked entity.

If she ran away she was lost, if she pursued she was lost. Damn them all. She had half a mind to crawl back into bed and pretend that everything was one long, nightmarish dream, the product of a fevered mind.

She remembers the first time her father made her vivisect a rat. The memory pops out at her of the small body with its twitching pink nose, its oblivious stare as she held it in a gloved hand.

Her father talked her through every incision. There is nothing quite like the first time. When she makes the first incision, there is a spark. A synapse connection between muscle memory and sensory experience. The tactile sensation of cutting through skin, the horrid sight and rancid smell of the viscera, even through her mask, even through her protective eyewear. It felt like a tiny current of electricity running from the tips of her fingers straight through to her brain. Even now Kuroko dreams of it.

She remembers its skin peeled back and stretched out like old papyrus, the new perspective breathing life to the illustrations in her dusty old anatomy books. So much colour. So much blood beneath her knife, ruby red stains and entrails, like tiny sausages...

Beside her ear is her father's gruff voice. Upon her shoulder, his hand grips firm and rests heavy. Keep your hands steady, and your breathing even. We are natural philosophers. To seek is our prerogative. The answers lie before us, if only we have the courage to peel back the skin of the world and look beneath.

She lets out a breath she did not remember holding, and comes to a decision then. No more pretending. No more running. No more masks. She scrunches the mask up in her hand and chucks it over her shoulder. A string of obscenities rings in her head like a mantra as she strides to the door. She bites her lip hard to stop the curses from slipping out as she exits.

Kuroko had thrown up after her first dissection, retched and heaved until nothing was left of her supper or dinner. Afterwards, she stoked the emptiness in her stomach like a fire as she stayed up till dawn thinking of the tiny beating heart under her scalpel.

There was no point in running. Kuroko lived in that world, with all the wretched others who peeled back the velvet curtain to see and seek what lay beyond, lurking in the ether.

-  
v.

Fears of the trail growing cold quickly vanish when Kuroko bears witness to the bodies of guards littering the grounds of the halls. All attempts to rouse them had been futile, but she had not spotted any blood, which was a small consolation. Their pupil dilation and heartbeats helped reinforce that tiny sliver of hope that they were temporarily drugged rather than fatally poisoned.

The trail of bodies lead Kuroko to a final door, at the end of the hallway. She feels her heartbeat thundering in her ears like a war-drum with each step forward she takes. The momentum carries her onwards until finally, she stands, hand upon the polished brass knob, palms sweaty and stomach in knots as she peeps through the keyhole and gazes upon the back of the masked figure.

She could still run. It was not too late to escape with her life in tact, and her wits still about her. But it turns then. As if possessed of a sixth sense, the figure turns and its eyes seem to burn into her through the thin wooden frame of the door. Kuroko chooses then to barge through.

"My lady." The voice that assails Kuroko's ears is a warbled, inhuman mess that fills her with unease.

"Forego the theatrics. The third floor is off limits to guests. What business do you have trespassing here?" Kuroko accuses while levelling it with her most valiant attempt at a glare.

"Would you believe me if I lost my way while looking for the loo?" It tilts its head to the side inquisitively like a crow, and the dark lens of its eyes catches the dim light of the lamps just so and gleams menacingly, like the flash of a dagger in the dark. "Ah. No need to answer. Your expression speaks for itself."

The mask is unnerving. Staring into it feels like gazing upon the face of death. The warped, skull-shaped mask stares back at her, totally impassive. A gentle wind wafts in through the open balcony, and from its black cloak, Kuroko catches the promise of violence as the scent of gunpowder uninvitedly intrudes upon her senses.

Kuroko steps steadily into the room, her eyes glaring defiantly up at the masked figure. "I recognised your outfit from the posters, as did everyone else in attendance. But I sensed something more than just another aristocrat with poor taste and money enough to waste on a costume so elaborate."

"Ah. Well, I recognise your hair, your gait, your stature. You have been following me all night." It intones evenly while it paces towards her with the purposeful, languid grace of a jungle cat stalking its prey, hands poised at its side. "Are you not afraid, little shadow? Do you not know who I am?"

Kuroko knows full well who stands before her. The newspapers paint a bleak picture of the masked menace as the rat plague given form and function - destruction born for its own sake.

On the streets, the guards weave a different tale. In hushed, clipped tones, they speak of death incarnate, come to stalk the streets at night, leaving nothing of victims save blood stains upon the cobblestone. Gossip of the phantom executioner fills the middling streets. Washerwomen and dock workers alike ridicule the city guards - so spooked that they go two at a time on patrols, even to take a piss.

Yes, Kuroko knows who stands before her. The facts of the matter are such: here Kuroko stands, faced with the very object of the city's nightmares. Is she unnerved? Yes. Afraid? Absolutely! Right down to her bones. But she will be dammed before she lets it show on her face. In these last moments of her life, let no one call her a coward. If she should die by the hand of an assassin, then she will not grant this brute the morbid satisfaction of seeing her reduced to a quivering mess!

"Are you not the one afraid? Is that not why you are wearing a mask? I know who you are, but who are you really, beneath that mask? I demand - if this is how I meet my end - that at the very least you grant me the courtesy of showing me the face of my would-be-killer."

Words. They will help her bide time while her mind ran full tilt trying to come up with a plan of action. Surely, this goon will not be so rude as to kill a lady in the middle of the last spiel of her life.

Strange, warbled sounds slip out, overshadowing the ghostly whispers of music that carry up to this part of the mansion from three stories down. Kuroko could scream, maybe a servant or some random, indiscreet couple on the second floor would notice and call the guards stationed downstairs. How deluded could Kuroko possibly be? By then, this intruder would have ample time to slit open her throat and slip out the already open window of the bannister. And then Kuroko would go down in history as just another helpless victim.

It takes her a second to realise that the sounds were from the hooded felon laughing at her. The gall!

"You are demanding? This is normally the point people start shouting for the guards, begging for their life, or pissing themselves."

"Why waste my breath?" Kuroko scoffs. "I counted the bodies on the way here. It seems all the guards patrolling this side of the mansion are down for the count. I was not brought up to grovel; even for my life, it is unbecoming. And as for the last option... Shall we say that the night is still young." Kuroko says the last bit with shaky bravado.

Kuroko has been running her mouth while steadily, and hopefully discreetly backing away. At present, her back has hit the dressing room table. One hand clutches the edges of the wood in a vice-like grip while the other slowly feels for a makeshift weapon. Kuroko is careful to avoid any sudden movements that might clue in her would-be murderer.

"My name is Shirai Kuroko, only daughter of Lord Shirai. Like him, I am a natural philosopher. It is our moral imperative to peel back the skin of the world and look beneath, to seek the answers to questions the civilised world dare not ask." Kuroko says this all while trying to hold eye contact, which was admittedly impossible to tell behind the assassin's mask.

Kuroko's hand finds purchase around the slender neck of a flower vase behind her. Not... The best of weapons, but on notice as short as this, it would have to do. She should have grabbed a weapon off the unconscious guards, but, Kuroko reasoned, there was no easy place for her to hide the sword. For the first time in her life, Kuroko wishes she had Shokuhou's ample bosom just so she had somewhere to stow one of their pistols.

Kuroko takes a breath to steel her resolve, then looks up at the figure with accusing eyes. "I saw what you wrote in the guest logbook. It was curiosity that bid me follow you. And it is curiosity still that drives me. I have read the newspapers, assassin. We both know how this will end. So please, grant me the courtesy of showing me the face of the person who is to take my life."

"Very well." The assassin makes to remove his mask.

She remembers the stories her father told her about fighting the native resistance in Pandyssia. Behind a mask, one becomes a distillation of ideals, no more man than ghost. Beneath the mask lies a man who can bleed and break all the same. She remembers his words, tries to draw upon them now for strength.

Kuroko's only discernible advantage was the assassin's underestimation of her. Her hands are trembling, her fingers twitching and sweat is gathering on her temples and her collarbone. Her entire body is wound tight like a bow string drawn taut and about to is the most foolhardy thing she has ever attempted in her life.

Somewhere in the mansion, a grandfather clock strikes midnight and chimes. It is then that Kuroko thinks to herself. This is it. It is now or never.

When the assassin takes off his mask is when she strikes, throwing the flower vase with as much strength as she can muster at the assassin's head. The arc of water marks the trajectory of the vase as it cuts through the air towards the assassin's head.

In the background, through the rush of adrenaline and the maddening thump of her heart in her chest, Kuroko can distantly make out the chimes of the clock. Nine chimes remain. It is the universe ticking down all the time left she has to live.

The vase makes contact, and with an oddly satisfying crack, shatters, spilling the remaining liquid and scattering peonies about. When the assassin stumbles back, stunned, Kuroko rushes forward, internally cursing all the trappings of her aristocratic wardrobe as she knocks the figure to the floor with the full brunt of her weight.

She grips the assassin's throat with one hand while the other fumbles for his sheathed sword. She wrestles it out of its scabbard with one hand and holds it up to the neck of the assassin, against the slight bulge of the carotid artery.

One clean cut, straight through from end to end of a pale neck and Kuroko would have done it, would have rid the Empire of its greatest and most elusive criminal. Her hands tremble at the thought of wilfully ending a life. Kuroko makes a mistake when she chooses to pause.

Instead of acting on instinct, instead of following the momentum of her actions by slashing the assassin's neck, Kuroko glances up, at his face, into his eyes, for a tenth of a second. Everything changes then in that one moment of awestruck revelation. In the background, the last chime rings out like a death knell, but all Kuroko can do in its aftermath is stare wide-eyed as her hands shake and shake.

"I urge you to drop it now. You have seen the bodies litter the grounds, and even now your hands tremble." Unmodulated by the mask, the voice that speaks this time is rich and womanly, if a little husky. Tousled shoulder length chestnut hair falls about her in waves, and frames her face as artful as a portrait. The eyes that Kuroko stares into are ones she never thought she would ever see, not in this lifetime.

Blood drips from the wound at the young woman's temple and down the beautiful and angular features of her face, tracing the path of a teardrop. When some of it reaches her upper lip, a red tongue flicks out and licks it away. Kuroko continues to stare in a magnetic, stupefied lull. It does not last long.

In a flash, she has kneed Kuroko in the gut, and used the momentum of the movement to reverse their positions and wrest the sword from out of Kuroko's grasp. "I admire your gumption, but let this be a lesson to you. If you draw a blade with no intent to kill, you should draw no blade at all."

"Who are you?" Kuroko croaks out shakily, still winded by the blow. Her back is pressed uncomfortably to the hardwood floor as she stares up at her assailant, still in disbelief.

"You say you saw me write in the ledger. You know who I am." She blows stray strands of her hair out of her face.

"Surely, it cannot be. She has been missing for years! The world thinks her dead."

The assassin bares her teeth then, as an animal bears its fangs. It is at once a chilling and breathtaking sight to behold. Her eyes. She has such expressively vivid eyes, Kuroko cannot help but think, honeyed brown with flecks of caramel and gold. For a second, Kuroko swears she sees a glint of steely blue in the rich sea of colours as her eyes narrow harshly in a glare. "What do you make of me now as I stand before you in the flesh? If you do not believe your very eyes, there is little to be done."

Kuroko looks at her, wide-eyed like a cow meant for slaughter. Memories flash before her, chains of events strung together leading up to where she is now, an insect tangoed in a spiderweb. Kuroko is reminded of her childhood, of sitting on her father's broad shoulders while she gazed at the grand procession. The princess! Crowds flocked over in droves from the far reaches of the Empire, bearing gifts upon gifts. With a sceptre in one hand and a sword in the other, the young girl had stood and faced the crowd with all the bearings of a monarch as she was proclaimed the Royal Heir to witnesses in the multitudes.

But that was a lifetime ago, in a different city under a different a rule. A lifetime ago, before tragedy rained blow upon blow down upon them like hail, and the city was awash with blood. In a plague ravaged Dunwall, when the people were cowering from fear of death, they had been robbed of their beloved Empress and Princess in one fell swoop. The government had the Lord Protector branded a traitor and hung for her Empress' assassination and the Royal Heir's kidnapping. The Spymaster had stepped in, quick to fill the vacuum of power. And nothing had been the same since.

Kuroko's hands are clenched tight, her face contorted in fear as her back arches awkwardly so that her neck is pressed closer to the floorboards and further away from the steel blade. So this is how she will meet her end. So be it then, Kuroko thinks in resignation as she relaxes the arch of her back.

"I take no pleasure in killing without reason." She says with a sigh and drives the blade into the wooden floorboard a scant distance from Kuroko's face. She stands then, proud and regal as ever as she looks down at Kuroko.

"My feud is not with you. Do not give me a reason to strike you down." She says with an icy glare and gestures vaguely to the shattered remnants of the broken flower vase.

"Why did you come to my home?" Kuroko asks quietly with her heart in her mouth as cold sweat runs down the side of her face and the back of her neck. "Who was it then you wanted to strike down in cold blood?"

"You are a fool to presume. I answer to no one. Least of all to you. I moved amidst your kind once," She says as she presses a gloved hand up to prod experimentally at the wound at her temple. "Past their honeyed words and beautiful clothes lie rotting cores."

Kuroko lets out a hollow laugh. "The blue bloods are no more my kind than you. I am half feral in their eyes, barely even human."

"But still, you call the White Manor your home, you dine with those gold gilded parasites. What do you know of what I have seen?" She bites out scathingly, bitter venom lacing every word. "The Empire is in decay, but my mother loved it with all her heart, and was killed for it, as did my father. For doing his duty, for trying to protect her, he was branded a traitor and hung. I wanted to see, with my own eyes, if this accursed city was even worth saving."

"Of course it is worth saving," Kuroko interjects. "If even one decent human being draws breath here, then it is."

Kuroko does not get up from her space on the floor. She chooses instead to bend down low, forehead and nose pressed to the cool wooden floor, face burning in shame, but voice brimmingwith conviction. "Please, I do not speak for the aristocrats, but for the citizens of Dunwall. I beseech you. Grovelling is unbecoming, but I can think of no worthier cause. My friend Uiharu was orphaned by the plague. I've seen the body bags piled up and burned day after day, bodies of young children, the old, working men and women. The Lord Regent will condemn them all to save himself."

Carelessly, Kuroko cuts open her palm upon a broken glass shard, as she presses both palm s flat upon the floor. "Your majesty, if you are indeed Mikoto Misaka, first of her name, daughter to the Empress and rightful heir to the Empire of the Isles, on behalf of the citizens of Dunwall, I beg of you. Do not hide in the shadows. Reclaim your throne as the rightful heir. Help us put an end to the plague, to the corruption and the suffering. Help the innocents caught in the crossfire. Help the citizens who never stood a chance. Help us, please."

Kuroko raises her head when she is done. By then the woman is kneeling down on one knee, her hair falls forward, so Kuroko cannot see into her eyes or the expression on her face. Kuroko freezes yet again, like a rabbit freezes in the jaws of a fox, certain of its demise when the woman leans forward, towards her.

Instead of stabbing Kuroko in the heart, instead of slashing across her neck from end to end, she draws no weapon. When she raises her hands, it is to cup Kuroko's cheeks softly, with long, calloused fingers. Clumsily, as if her hands were unaccustomed to such delicate gestures, she wipes away the tracks of tears running down Kuroko's face, with the rough pads of her thumb.

Kuroko did not even know she had been crying. She does not want to look in the mirror right now, on the hardwood floor, with puffy red eyes and her make-up smudged and her dress a mess. Kuroko does not need a mirror. She sees herself in all her ignominy reflected in the woman's expressive eyes. Kuroko's cheeks burn, she bites hard on her bottom lip to stop a shuddering sob from spilling out.

"The person you speak of, the person you want... the girl the world knew is dead. There is nothing left of that girl but the thought of revenge." The young woman says softly, her tone placid, her voice devoid of feeling though she cups Kuroko's face with such gentleness. "Dark forces move among us. If I should ever stand a chance, I must move as I do now, in the shadows like a ghost."

She looks at Kuroko pitifully then, as a mother would chidingly at a child for its naïveté. "There are no innocents, Kuroko. Just the puppeteers and their playthings. In this world, we are all pawns in someone else's game. Some people are born into their deaths and beyond saving."

The cogs in Kuroko's mind are turning. Desperately, Kuroko looks searchingly into her eyes, but finds no trace of deception. She wrenches her herself free from the woman's grasp and makes to stand. How could the Empress' daughter be so callous?

Kuroko wants to scream. She wants to storm out of the room. She wants to call for the guards. Instead, Kuroko glares at her with a cold and chilling fury, her voice still raw and a little sore from crying. "If you look upon the world and see only that, then you are not fit to rule."

The young woman does not seem to take offence. She does not edge forward to draw her sword and finish the task of killing her. She only stands, a cautious distance away from Kuroko, as she folds her arms and raises an eyebrow, waiting to see what will unfold next. If it is a show she is waiting for, Kuroko will give her one.

"Fine then, you blue blooded coward. Leave!" Kuroko shouts as she pries the sword from out of the floorboard with great effort and jabs her roughly in the side with its now bloodied hilt. "The people of Dunwall, we will save ourselves."

The woman's grunt of discomfort is soon replaced by laughter as it bubbles out of her like when someone pops open a bottle of champagne. Kuroko scowls, already hating the gregarious sound.

"You say that you seek to draw back the velvet curtain of the world and peer into its frightful core." The woman, for she is no longer royalty in Kuroko's eyes, not by her measure of the word, says as she sheathes her sword with fluid grace.

"There is no place in this city for people like you, Kuroko. People cannot bear to know a truth so painful. I urge you to keep eating the lies they feed you in the days ahead; life will be much easier for you that way." The assassin looks into Kuroko's eyes then, fixes her with a piercing stare, with an expression so grave it speaks of a tragedy their language has no means of expressing.

Kuroko is afraid then, not of her, but of what the woman has witnessed, what she has experienced to mould her into the being that stands before Kuroko now. Kuroko is afraid once again, and like before, she will not show it. And so they face each other as they stand, close enough to touch, though they do not, two broken pieces from opposite ends of the world who do not quite fit together.

In this little nook of the world a pregnant pause unravels between them, strangers both in their skin. Quietly, discreetly, not quite like lovers do (they are too critical) though intimate all the same, they pick each other apart without words. They see so much and yet so little, bright and sharp, brittle bits like broken shards of glass, equally fascinating and dangerous things to unearth.

And so it is in her father's study that they slip their masks back into place. Some, more literally than others. An understanding is reached, and they fall back into their roles, like actors more comfortable facing each other on stage than anywhere else.

"Whatever your business here was, assassin, it has henceforth been adjourned. Take your cryptic warnings and your sword and leave." Kuroko gestures scathingly to the open window. "Worry not about your secret, as afar as I am concerned, Mikoto Misaka is dead to the world."

"As you wish, my lady. I shall take my leave." The masked felon says, as always surprisingly polite, though it walks away from the window, and towards the one open door, passing Kuroko in the process.

"I left my coat on the first floor." It says and lets out a strange, warbled chuckle as it nears her and glimpses the dumbfounded expression on Kuroko's face.

It stops a scant inch away from her, reaches into a side pocket and produces not a dagger, but a handkerchief that it offers up to her, "For your hand, lest it become sceptic."

Kuroko takes it with a scowl and tips her head up and stands on her toes to glare up at the masked assassin. "I am not going to thank you, nor am I going to apologise for wounding you. I mean it. We will save ourselves. If you hurt anyone I love, you will know no rest until you are in the ground."

"Fiery as ever. I well do well to remember your words." At the foot of the door, it turns around. "As an aside... You've never met him, have you? The Outsider. I think the black eyed bastard would like you."

Kuroko looks at it like its grown an extra head, but it does not give a second glance back as it stalks off into the shadows.

Kuroko scowls as she watches it round the corner. She wraps the handkerchief around her palm, and flexes her hand, testing the tension. She walks towards the window, then, leans her arms on the window sill and peers out at the sleeping city, as steam rises from drains and high into the air.

Kuroko cannot see the boarding house on Kipling Avenue from here, but there is a perfect view of the front gates leading out onto the street. She looks out still, as a black clad figure steps out the White Mansion, and walks self-assuredly out onto the cobblestone streets. The chilly night winds make goosebumps burst out across the exposed skin of her arms and collarbone. It does well to cool her head.

The shape gets smaller and smaller. When its path forward is blocked by a Wall of Light, it mysteriously disappears from her view entirely. It is only then that Kuroko closes the windows, and the shutters and draws the curtains closed. She strolls out of her father's study carrying piles and piles of books and medical journals, and makes the long walk back down the dim corridors back to her room. She mutters a quiet apology when she steps on a guard's hand and he lets out a pained groan. Idly, Kuroko wonders about the other party guests, then banishes the thought from her mind. Her father had already dismissed her from her duties this evening.

In the harsh light of day, her father will inquire about the broken shards of glass strewn about his study, about the cut on her hand and his damaged floor. For now, there is work yet to be done. And the night is still young.

* * *

Hello, readers! What did you guys think of the story? It is a very loose Dishonoured AU and the longest thing I've written so far. Playing the game made me really thirsty for a Mikoto/Kuroko story. So, there you go!

It does not necessarily follow the game's narrative structure, so... Yeah, don't worry about it. If you're hella confused, feel free to ask. The story is meant as a one-shot, but if you guys are interested in reading more, let me know and I'll whip something up! I feel like writing a few one-shots. If you have any ideas for a Mikoto/Kuroko story, feel free to share them in your review. If I get inspired, I'll write it!


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